


whisper

by tricksterity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nogitsune!Stiles, Steter Week, dark!stiles, everyone's alive and nobody died
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2463587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterity/pseuds/tricksterity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was tired.</p><p>He was done of people pushing him and his pack around. They’d already lost so much and he was damned if he’d let them lose anyone else, especially to this psychopath who had no reasons for what he did other than he liked it.</p><p>And that’s when the whispers in his mind grew louder. </p><p>(Written for Steter Week 2014, prompt: nogitsune!Stiles)</p>
            </blockquote>





	whisper

There was a gun to Lydia’s head.

As if she hadn’t been through enough already.

There was a gun to Lydia’s head, and the rest of the pack had been wrapped up in wolfsbane-laced ropes threaded through metal loops embedded into the wall. Those who were impervious to wolfsbane, like Kira and Allison, were tied up with heavy chains and were groggy from the chloroform. 

The room was dark, only dim evening light filtering in from the high windows, whimpers echoing throughout the empty concrete room. Lydia’s eyes were wide open even though Stiles could tell she wanted to close them so badly and just shut the world out, her lips sucked in to stifle the sounds she wanted to make. Screaming would not help her here. 

There was a hand wrapped around her neck, tipped with gnarled, blackened claws, leading the way up a white, wrinkled arm to the grinning, goddamn smug face of Gerard fucking Argent. Like he hadn’t fucked up everyone’s lives already, and Stiles himself wanted to scream.

Everyone that they’d fought in the past four years, every Alpha or druid had had their reasons for what they did. Peter wanted revenge on his family’s killers; Matt wanted revenge for those who laughed at his humiliation and near-death experiences; Jackson had no control over his actions; Deucalion had wanted revenge on the man who killed the majority of his pack and burned out his eyes; Jennifer wanted to make sure that the Alpha pack never hurt anyone again; the nogitsune only did what was in it’s nature; Meredith was helpless to the voices in her head.

But Gerard Argent… he had no reasons for fucking up everyone’s life other than the fact that he was the worst scum on the planet who found joy in ruining people. It was his indoctrination of Kate that lead to the Hale fire, his murder of Matt and control of Jackson that’d nearly killed them all, his senseless attack on Deucalion who had only wanted peace within the hunter and werewolf community. He was evil for no other reason than he was insane. 

And apparently, he’d still had enough contacts to cure him from the mountain ash poisoning, and he was now a fully-fledged, blue-eyed werewolf. No surprises there. 

Stiles stood side-by-side with Peter, both of them seething and shaking with rage at the man standing before them with a gun to one of Stiles’ best friend’s heads. Lydia was shaking from fear, and god she’d been through enough, and Stiles could almost smell the blood from where Erica was bleeding out slowly from a wolfsbane bullet. If they didn’t get it out of her soon, she’d die, and she’d already come so close before and they were not going to lose her. 

Malia, Derek and Cora were weakly holding onto each other, glaring up at the man who had murdered their family in cold blood, allowing Kate Argent to set their family on fire and who had probably congratulated her for it, probably celebrated with a glass of wine at the end of the night to his insane, psychopathic daughter. Stiles had never thought he’d meet someone with more insane morals than Kate, but apparently her father took the cake.

Stiles’ friends were dying, his _pack_ was dying, his best friend was barely conscious with his head on Isaac’s lap, and Stiles was sick of it.

Stiles was tired.

He was done of people pushing him and his pack around. They’d already lost so much and he was damned if he’d let them lose anyone else, especially to this psychopath who had no reasons for what he did other than _he liked it_.

And that’s when the whispers in his mind grew louder. That distorted, hissing voice that haunted his dreams, that Stiles had been so afraid of but had also given him so much power that he’d felt sick with it. Lydia’s expression told him everything he needed to know as his lip curled up and she looked both frightened and relieved. 

Peter dragged his claws gently down the back of Stiles’ hand, one predator recognizing another. 

Stiles wouldn’t let anyone hurt his pack again.

Stiles let the voice in.

Immediately the shaking in his bones stopped, the wild anger that clouded his vision became clear and focused, and his eyes went dead. He nodded, and Peter moved suddenly away. Gerard was shocked, and pulled his gun from Lydia’s head to point at Peter, and Stiles moved.

He slid forward like the surface of the world opened up for him to make his way unobstructed, and he twisted Gerard’s wrist away from Lydia’s neck until he heard it crack. He shoved Lydia away with a hard push, sending her reeling into Peter’s waiting arms. Before Gerard could think about tightening his finger on the trigger, Stiles grabbed the man’s head and wrenched it sharply to the side, a sickening crack echoing out into the sudden breathless silence.

Gerard Argent’s eyes were distant and unseeing as his body fell to the floor.

Stiles looked over to where Peter was crouching next to a horrified Lydia, and his pupils were dilated and his lips curled up into a smirk. 

_You can do what you’ve never been able to, what you’ve always wanted_ to the sleeping voice inside him whispered in the aftermath. Stiles would usually react by slamming his hands over his ears and repeating that it wasn’t real, that it was gone.

Stiles then circled the room, unknotting the ropes from the wolves and unwinding the chains that bound the two girls, vision turning a hazy red at the raw imprints of the metal pressed into their arms. 

“So there’s still a little bit of nogitsune left in you after all,” Peter said wonderingly, and Stiles winked. 

“Thanks,” Lydia breathed out, staring up at Stiles gratefully but also like she was a few minutes away from throwing up. Stiles nodded, and after giving everyone a once-over to make sure they were okay, he hoisted Gerard’s corpse over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“I’ll take care of this,” Stiles said, heading out to his jeep where he already had tarp and supplies waiting. He knew exactly where he was driving, had been down the route more times than he’d like to admit, and pulled up a mile away from the site. He hauled both the tarp-wrapped corpse and his duffel bag of supplies out of his jeep, and trekked through the woods until he arrived at an area that looked exactly the same as the others, except there were small shrubs growing sporadically throughout the area.

Stiles threw the tarp to the ground, unrolled it, pulled out his machete and got to work. Dismembering wasn’t as disgusting as it had been the first time, the whispering in his mind telling him exactly what he had to do, along with a little common sense that came from being the Sheriff’s son.

Tiny plots of dirt dug up, six feet down where he’d place an arm or torso, and then filled in again. He’d then plant a sapling in the overturned dirt to hide the differentiation in the soil, like a strange gardener with an obsession for planting in the wild.

He’d just planted the first sapling over a leg when footsteps crunched up behind him. A familiar gait and cadence, Stiles didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.

“You’ve done this before,” a voice purred, and Stiles’ lips pulled up into a grin.

“It’s not hard to find assholes around here, guys who try to pull helpless victims into back alleys with their pants down or are looking to stick a knife in a hitchhiking twink. They just crawl right into my lap and it keeps the fox satisfied for the time being,” Stiles gave as an explanation.

“And you didn’t tell me this because… why?” Peter asked, standing right behind Stiles. He finished patting the soil securely around the young sapling and then rose to his full height, just an inch taller than Peter. 

“When was I supposed to? Just a casual ‘oh Peter, by the way I murder people, dismember them and then bury them in the woods’ when I’m in the middle of riding you? Maybe confess when you’ve got your hand around my neck and you’re pounding into me? Or even better, when we’re drinking a homemade pumpkin spice latte on your couch, cuddled up watching Buffy?” Stiles drawled sarcastically. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. In case you’ve forgotten, this isn’t something I’m exactly new to. And watching you covered in Gerard Argent’s blood, well… I’m not exactly adverse to that either,” Peter said, a hand coming to grip Stiles’ waist while he trailed a finger down a spray of blood on Stiles’ cheek. 

“You’re such a fucking creep,” Stiles said as he buried his hands in Peter’s hair, pulling him towards his mouth.


End file.
